Grandma stands at the kitchen table, trying to save a hummingbird.
It's lying on a white cloth and there's sugar everywhere.
Grandpa's outside, yelling at farm equipment.
Worming around their living room in sleeping bags, my brothers and I
knock heads until one of us says something that hurts.
In a few hours, our sister is born. I shove my little brother over
as he holds her because she needs to learn.
For every second she is loved, another overlaps it.
Mom cries and Dad is a manager.
Portrait vs. Landscape
I only write poems about people smashing lightbulbs with their bare hands.
You only paint landscapes populated by animals who secretly do not like themselves.
If I stand too far away, the people start to look like they are squeezing the juices of a pear over their bodies.
If you stand too close, you see that the animals have faces and they are trying to give the pear back.